


in the wolf's den

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Discourse, F/F, Hate Sex, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 05, Smut, cliff hanger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 12:57:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15752112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Governor Bennett slips into Ferguson's cell after the evening of Gambaro's sacrifice. A different tongue wags tonight.





	in the wolf's den

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my girl. x Not only do you let my imagination run wild, but you're a lovely muse.

Newly found authority weasels its way inside. Governor Bennett attempts to reconfigure her identity, but pieces of Ferguson still slip in: the bun, the pants, the no-nonsense attitude. She reigns a New Jerusalem prone to sin. She’s not here to flick holy water and cast the wicked spirit out.

There’s a reason why Vera stalks down this corridor late into the night. After the offering in her office, she feels as unsettled as she is restless. The tongue of her offender haunts her. Unable to keep her emotions in check, she lets vinegar sour her. Taint her. In the hallway, with the camera lens pointed away, she slips off her kitten heels. Once inside, she leaves her scuffed shoes by the door. Nylons silently pad across cold tile. In this miserable cell, the stars are blotted out.

Welcome to the firebird suite.

Midnight ransacks the place. Turns the room a gruesome shade of navy blue. In the darkness, her small body takes no shape. Formless, she meanders through the shifting shadows. The host of hell occupies this room. Gone is the ghostly image of her ideal. Miss Diplomatic Immunity lies in bed. She knew Joan to be awake. In all their trysts and scuffles, it was evident that the woman slept poorly – a few hours stolen before the light of dawn. Never anything more.

Joan is always on her mind. Goddamn her.

What was once enchantment is now illusory. Now, a hunter pretends to be hunted. Her profile resembles a retablo: a thin, tri-fold sheet of tin depicting a painting nailed in a church that divides the story much like Vera’s loyalty. Joan is the saint in the middle, now crucified by the indiscretion of her hate.

Only now does she think Joan to have a human shape. She deserves soft cushions and silken sheets. Her greying mane snakes across the pillow. _I’ve done this to her,_ Vera muses in inner turmoil.

That sliver of guilt vanishes once she crawls onto the cot. _You never could stand up for yourself, Stinky Pants,_ Mum taunts her. Knees point into thighs reminiscent of marble columns. She settles herself right where she belongs. Vera Bennett straddles the wolf by the waist. How comforting it would have been for a doe to curl up by her side, instead.

Straying from innocence, Vera joins her predecessor and plays the petty degradation game. Inhaling deeply, her arms shift forward. The heels of her palms ghost along that pale throat. Vera contemplates on crushing her windpipe. In a startling revelation, it brings her back to the pillow hanging over Mum’s priceless expression. She swallows. Thickly, deeply.

With a cant of her hips, Joan shakes her off. Almost laughably, Vera falls off. Small fists knot into the now wrinkled sheets. The Governor grimaces, her behind half-off the cot.

“Have you come to kill me?” The recently ordained Top Dog quips.

“No,” Vera responds in due time, her spine curved. Despite all her wrongs, bringing death to Joan is an unfathomable concept. She may despite her, but she hardly wants to see her buried.

A hum vibrates through her core. Guiltiness pours into her twisted soul. Shamefully, she closes her eyes, glancing at the shadowed mask in the dark. She’d be lying if she didn’t find the bloody gift a source of horror and flattery.

They’re both fucked up and _fucked_.

“Hm. Has the naughTy Governor come to reap her reward?”

To level the playing field, she undresses.

“Get on with it,” Governor Bennett demands, tired of the pettiness, of the childish slander that transpires between them. Their warfare seldom ceases.

Little lies whisper ‘ I need you.’ It’s all so familiar; like the good, old debriefs, they fall into sequence. The pants slip off, her lingerie still clinging to her narrow hips. With reluctance, she removes crimson lace. It had been a birthday treat for a jackknife called Jake.

Jake no longer touches her. Instead, he tells her ‘I love you’ and it feels like a stone sinking in her stomach. Her predecessor, however, finds it an enjoyable sight in the moonlight. A scarred finger traces the pattern before bare skin replaces lace.

“For me?” Ferguson retorts with kittenish mirth. She chuckles upon witnessing the outline of Vera casting aside her garments though she disapproves of the _mess_. “My, Vera. It is your birthday…”

A fiendish smirk caresses thin, pink lips. Her dirty maiden has no aspirations to come clean. How many times had Jake brought her pleasure, only for her to imagine that it was Joan instead?

“Shut the fuck up,” Miss Bennett snaps, bristling with fiery indignation. She doesn’t know how to deal with her life’s unlucky hand. So, she vies for meager distractions. Shrugging off the blazer, she crawls on her haunches toward the front of the bed.

Once upon a time, she obeyed as a pupil would obey her teacher. Joan still rules as her Old Master. Over the years, Vera becomes a rougher sea. A sensory violence pledges irrationality. Thighs frame sallow cheeks. For once, the mischievous fox takes a vow of silence.

Joan plays her for a cello, all the right strings plucked to elicit a bittersweet melody. The instrument finds herself incapable of denying her arousal. Vera presses her hungry cunt to a pair of hot, wicked lips. Firm hands grip her ass, pulling her closer to that insatiable mouth. That warm tongue slips inside, fucking her, casting aside villainous, seductive monologue.

The Governor’s hand seeks purchase in the iron curtain. The soft bed of her malevolent tongue drags across her lips. When the wolf’s paw meets the curve of her ass, a loud, resounding slap follows. A gasp rubs Vera’s throat raw. She leans into the touch, into the violence. She’s quit on lusting for change.

Lost to the sensation, her body rocks in the imitation of a capsized ship fighting the storm. The feral growl between her legs sends a pulse right through her. With a moan, she rides the Devil’s face. Desperate to contain her wanton cry, her palm flies to her mouth. Shivers rack through her body. A near-archaic memory flits up to the surface. Vera finds herself in her newly purchased bed, as shy as a virgin, a red tint assaulting her cheeks.

 _‘ Touch yourself for me, Vera. Show me what you like,’_ Governor Ferguson crooned.

Aroused, Vera unbuttons her blouse to eagerly grip her breasts. She squeezes, pinches her nipples with a wanton mewl. Shivering and shuddering, she responds to every touch, every caress, every wet kiss. Her clit pulsates and throbs, her nails digging into broad shoulders which tense beneath her.

In a fever, heat devours the body. They haven’t been this harmonious since the tables turned, the roles reversed. Her heart knocks against her breastbone. She **needs** Joan. That’s a cold revelation without the leaching light of day.

Trembling at the knees, Vera grinds down. Sharp teeth graze her swollen lips, her wet slit, her opening proclaimed as an offering. An attentive finger circles her clit. The hardened nub twitched in response and oh, _fuck_ , Jake could never get her to **reach** nirvana.

The Devil takes her.

A hungry cat laps up the sweat cream that smears across the inside of Vera’s thigh. An artery hums and pulses with her blood. She could bite it, she could leave Vera crying. There was a time when only two fingers were needed to get her off, stretching her inner walls most deliciously. Now, three pump inside of her. Slowly, attentively, before picking up the tempo.

Noise no longer concerns the Governor. She mewls, whines, cries, moans. Every verb defines her. Her hips lift from the mattress before she continues to impale herself on the fingers that fill her, the tongue that massages her twitching bundle of nerves. Vera wants to tell the wolf of this tale to fuck off. A shame that the predator in the room’s to skilled to turn with her tale between her legs. She coaxes one climax out of this woman. Then, another. What a succulent morsel.

Wilted, lurched forward, Vera pants. Wetness coats her thighs, saliva and cum alike. Begrudgingly, she tears herself from a lying mouth that makes for a pleasurable throne.

The wolf licks her lips clean, only to drag her mouth over Vera’s bare chest, hollowly imitating a kiss. Through the dirty deed, she eats the lamb’s heart. Vera detaches herself though it seems impossible. Again, she kneels before her fallen saint. In her bemusement, Joan continues to lie there. She yearns to wipe that smirk from those sensual lips.

“Consider this leverage,” Joan drawls after pointedly wetting her curved mouth.

Vera’s stomach lurches. Dread fills her body. Happy Birthday to her.

“Do try to overpower me again. It was an enjoyable attempt.” Joan clucks her tongue which traces her filed fangs.       

“Fuck you,” the Governor spits.

“I believe that’s been done already.” Nothing satisfies her completely. To mock the fool, Joan plucks at her waistband. As many desserts as she’s been fed, she remains high on the sadist’s end game. “Or would you rather waTch?” She inquires with a click of her teeth.        

Vera’s open hand slides across her chapped lips.

It’s an irresistible offer that she **cannot** refuse.


End file.
